Indecency
by ChekhovTheTroper
Summary: Just another day longer, another day with doubts and lies; just another day of having a slip, but Rome wasn't built in a day. Then again, some people say it was, and perhaps you're the rubble and he's walking all over you. How many more days are left? *AU*
1. I: Family

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the _Child's Play_ franchise b/c they hated the fact that I wanted to add logic to it. :p**

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_Georgie Porgie pudding and pie  
Kissed the girls and made them cry.  
When the boys came out to play,  
Georgie Porgie ran away._

The rhyme lolls off of Glenda's lips cyclically during the ride home. Glen squirms in his seat, acknowledging the morbid glee in his twin sister's voice. Tiffany Ray enjoys this ambiance, and as she queries further about their school-day, the childish chant is now ingrained in the back of her skull.

"We also learned how to cut!" Glenda chirps.

"Paper." Glen adds. "We're making Christmas trees to decorate her classroom."

"Oh, honey, that's wonderful." As Tiffany is tooling the family minivan across Highway 90, her eyes flicker from one wandering passerby to the next. There is a woman, dressed too scantily for her overflowing body type, conversing with a john. Tiffany considers her for a moment, but then discards it. She'll have to see if her husband would think otherwise later.

As the mental ministrations run through her head, it is punctuated by Glenda's laugh, followed by a trepid squeak from Glen. She cranes her head against her seat. "Hey, now, let's not start a ruckus back there. You remember what happened _last time _you two were causing trouble."

"I wasn't causing trouble," Glen says, balking once as he rubs the weal on his arm. Glenda smirks at it and clenches her fist again, resigning at the satisfying flash of fear in her brother's eyes.

"So, Glen," Tiffany says, trying to distract herself, "can you tell me how your science project presentation went?"

"Pretty good…I was scared to present at first—"

"He hid in his cubby!" Glenda snaps, rolling her eyes.

"At first. But when I was ready to present, it was OK. Mrs. Jens really liked the colors of my planet."

"How adorable." Tiffany murmurs.

"Humph. Mine was better." Glenda pouts, crossing her arms. "Mrs. Jens thought mine was too scary for the class. What a bunch of babies."

"Well, I did warn you that saying your alien race consists of radioactive cannibals _would _frighten the littles."

"So? She told me to be creative."

Tiffany thinks of a motherly retort, but the thought coils with amused laughter and it is forgotten. However, as she laughs, she feels her hands grasp the steering wheel unsteadily. She is unsure as to what has caused it this time, but she glances downwards briefly—her knuckles are _paling_. It almost frightens her how tense she's become, but as her sight refocuses on the road, there is an unsettling reminder: a throng of Girl Scouts are packed in the backseat of an old man's Prius, and as they're coddling each other's hair and giggling at nothing, he is grinning the whole time. Tiffany's eyes taper at the sight of him, and something brews inside her mind again, just like it did at the sight of that woman talking to her friend. Perhaps—

"_Mo-om_." Glenda huffs. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Sorry, sweetie," Tiffany sighs. "I've had an exhausting day at the diner. I'm just tired, that's all. What were you saying?"

Tiffany shuts out whatever fantastic spiel Glenda goes into, and she only nods whenever her daughter pokes at her arms. Only a few more turns and a few red lights to ignore; they'd be home soon enough. Her eyes feel heavy, as the countless hours of obnoxious patrons and spilt coffee to be wiped away weighed down on her like a set of heavy manacles. However, when that something—that _thing _she never wants to name—works its way into her thoughts, she feels awake, as if it were achieved through a contact high. She is both frightened and elated at the feel of it. These thoughts have exhilarated her since she moved out of her parents' house and the need for comfort was evident. Tiffany is too stubborn to voice these desires, for the sake of her children, but at the cost of her husband's eagerness…and perhaps her own, as well…

The aforementioned Prius swerves in front of her, causing her to almost make a disproportionate turn towards the large truck of oranges. Glenda giggles and Glen joins in, but Tiffany clicks a button that lowers the window. She is about to curse out the driver, but she holds back. However, traffic begins to build up and she is caught up in the first link of cars. The Prius is idling next to her, and she makes eye contact with the driver. He returns the look, the grin twisting into something more appropriately lewd. The girls in the back of his car do not notice, and Tiffany's own kids do not notice her giving this man the bird. He turns away with a slipstream of inebriated laughter, throwing his head back as the green light eggs the drivers on.

Tiffany treads along, trying to assuage the oncoming migraine. She turns towards a familiar serpentine pathway of houses. A cat scurries from one of the porches, walking towards the road. Glen points at it while Glenda hisses mockingly. A woman, twenty years Tiffany's senior, cajoles it away from the car and waves at the family. Tiffany stops in front of her, smiling with forced sweetness.

The woman bends through the window and hugs Tiffany with one arm. "Hi, sweetie! How are you? How are the twins? Oh, you look as fresh as a damn-blushing peach."

"Hello, Nanny. I'm just here to drop off Glen and Glenda for a few hours. I have a lot of errands to run tonight, but they'll be home by supper, I promise.

"Aww, don't worry. I'll be happy to feed them for you." Nanny turns to the kids and gasps with near-cartoonish emphasis. "Are these your kids? They've grown longer than their names in less than three months! Goddam, nevermind my offer then. I'm afraid they'll grow into giants and eat me in my sleep."

Glen and Glenda exchange uneasy looks as Tiffany brushes off Nanny's coddling words. "That's OK, Nan. I made sure to starve them last night while Chucky was watching _Matlock_."

Nanny's harsh laughter bounces around in the van, causing the kids to scoot down in their seats. "All in a day's work. Well, let me bring them in and you just go do your work."

"Thank you." Tiffany unlocks the doors and smiles, not looking at her children. "You two behave while I'm gone. I'll pick you up around six. Have a good time."

The languid tone doesn't appeal to her, but her children do not seem to notice as they run to the porch and take turns scaring the cat. As Tiffany turns her car around and waves at them, she discards Nanny's concerned look and drives away. Once they are out of eyeshot, Tiffany lets out a relieved breath and mentally checks off her list of errands. First, she'd have to stop by the market (a bag of apples, two milk jugs, three cans of undecipherable sauce, and a chocolate cake), then get her hair cut (remember, Olivia, not too short this time; don't wanna look like some _Rocky Horror _floozy again), and gather some Christmas decorations (it _is _the time of year to be more cheerful, although it's too early to)—

The market is clear in her vision, and so is the woman from earlier. She is leaning against the window, taking a cheerless drag on her smoke. She looks at Tiffany with empty eyes and smiles, teeth small and yellowing.

(don't be cheerful this time, Tiffany…just another day longer)

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**A/N: Sooooo tis October...tis the time of year kids get candy, teens cause mischief, and horny old men can sleep w/ many Sailor Moon cosplayers w/out being charged for statutory rape...how shall I celebrate it? I am posting this CP fanfic, a fanfic that attempts to profile these two serial-killin' lovebirds. Even though this is AU, idk how graphic the violence will be yet, so the T rating is a default rating. It may graduate to an M rating, but who knows? Less is more, so since I stole your wallet, that means I have less and you have more ;)**

**However, if you prefer it to be the other way around, I suggest you review OR ELSE THE WALLET GETS IT!**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**


	2. II: Perfection

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own ****_Child's Play_****, but I own a lot of weird shit in my room; and like I said before, I don't owe you shit.**

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When Tiffany returns home, the first thing she sees is a foreign pair of blue heels underneath the coat rack. (Navy blue—not-so-Navy—velvet) Groceries in one hand, Tiffany is able to snatch the pair of shoes with the other. Veering into the living room, she hears Axl Rose telling her to talk softly, as there is something in her eyes. The CD skips at that part, causing Tiffany to smirk. A woman's bra has been slung onto the couch. Looks like a 44D…Tiffany is unsure if that would fit, but she'll see once the show's over.

Setting the bag down on the coffee table, Tiffany notices something distressing. A bottle of wine has been toppled over. Red sangria spreading, spreading—(shit, Chucky, are you kidding me? not a single day without making a mess, not a single)—

"Tiff?" a voice grunts from the bedroom. "Hey Tiff, you home?"

"Yes."

"Did you bring the groceries?"

"Yes, and I also brought a lecture with me."

"Those two things always come together." Chucky saunters out of the bedroom, dressed in a stained T-shirt and boxers. The first thing he sees is Tiffany standing near the scene of the crime. Chucky replies with a leisurely eye-roll, sneering: "Uh-oh, caught red-handed again."

"Why is it that every damn time I buy a bottle of wine, it ends up on the floor?"

"Beats me. Can't remember the last time you bought me beer, so I try to adapt, like you said." Chucky kneels down in front of the entertainment center, rummaging through the cabinets. He finds a soiled rag stuffed behind the home video collection and tosses it at her, snickering when it bounces off of her face. "Here. Soak it and start scrubbing. I gotta get back to work."

"Didn't you even know this was supposed to be our anniversary wine?"

"Dammit, there's enough red stains in the house; I thought you'd be used to it by now. The fuck is my—do you know where the fuck my pocketknife is?"

"I just got home, and I'm not in the mood for a thorough inspection."

"Where the _fuck _is my pocketknife, Tiff? I don't let people mix my stuff up with their shit."

"Then don't hide it in the living room. Last time I checked, everyone's shit is mixed up in there." Tiffany grumbles, stalking into the kitchen to throw away the rag, aware that Chucky is following her.

"Did you see Glenda playing with it?"

"Surprisingly, no."

"Good. If she ever tries to sacrifice someone, I need to videotape it."

Tiffany throws the rag into the sink and sighs, mumbling obscenities under her breath. Chucky leans against the counter, dissecting the sappy lyrics purling throughout the house. Whenever the guitar begins to strengthen its sound, there is a muffled sob heard from the garage. Chucky shrugs and asks, "And how exactly did you convince me to buy this limp-cock music?"

"Last time I checked, you rather enjoyed this limp-cock music. Unless, of course, that's not the only thing going soft."

Tiffany can feel Chucky's face growing colored, and she expects an impromptu fist to collide with the side of her head. He steps towards her too quietly and she knows he's going to break loose again. Instead, a shaking hand reaches out to touch a patch of subdued curls that hangs around her cheek. With subconscious humor, she shivers, more frightened by the mock-tenderness rather than the malice behind the gesture.

"C'mon, Tiff, don't be such a stiff. Look, once I take care of this broad before the kids get home, I'll make it up to ya."

(you'll make it up to me, that's what you always say) "How much longer do you think this one will take?"

"Honestly, I don't even know. I mean, she's cute in a bar, but only in a bar. You take her to a French restaurant and they'll think you brought the main course."

"I take it she's a little too heavy for your taste?"

Chucky smirks, spitting into the sink. "She's too heavy for me to even fucking _find _where my taste is. It'll be fun carving into her though…you know what—"

"Chucky, I highly doubt the taste of roasted whore is more appealing than rotisserie chicken."

"Sometimes, they taste like the same damn thing." Chucky nibbles at Tiffany's neck, causing her to giggle. Whenever he makes jokes like that, they always bother her, but she never shows it, not when his teeth scrapes against her skin so sweetly. When he pulls back, the stoicism in her eyes fades, but she manages to hold back her amusement.

"Check the bathroom. Last time you brought a whore into the house, she said she liked knife-play in the tub."

"You sure that wasn't just us last night?" Chucky walks into the living room again, humming and cursing as he carries on with his search. He bumps into the table on the way out, letting out a sharp interjection. This provokes a soft laugh from Tiffany, but he quickly returns with the missing knife. "Found it in the trash. Shouldn't have wrapped it in toilet paper, should I?"

"Probably not." Tiffany brushes off his vulgar joke, venturing back into the living room to retrieve her groceries. She grabs the bottle's neck and aligns it upwards, cringing at the stain on the carpet. "I don't know how many _wine stains _we can keep cleaning up."

"Don't worry. I'm keeping this one at bay, alright? No parading her around like Achilles's corpse this time, I got it. Besides, I don't even know what jungle this bitch came from. I'm afraid of her touching my stuff."

"Want me to eject the CD?"

"Nah. At least my favorite track is on next, so that'll pump me up a little. Happy cleaning, bitch."

"Happy killing," Tiffany retorts caustically, placing the bag on the couch rather than venture back into the kitchen. The fierce slipstream of lyrics rebound like gunfire as she hears a struggle going on in the garage. She looks at the shoes and bra again. Although she tries to affirm her stormy mood, the frantic honesty of the beat mingles beautifully with the sound of bone on concrete. It wouldn't hurt to let loose only a little bit. She saunters over to the couch, steps out of her black cat-heels, and slips into these not-so-Navies. They pinch at first, but with a little more walking, she'd feel more comfortable.

T MINUS 1:09 AND COUNTING!

A sharp scream sinks through whatever gag Chucky is using on her. There's a satisfying _crack _followed by an eruption of overjoyed laughter. The sound washes over Tiffany's ears, shivers gyrating down her spine.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8—Tiffany sheds her wool sweater, along with her wilted bra. She tosses them onto the television, slowly moving her hips in tune with the music. She reaches over and swipes this woman's undergarment. She slides her ample chest into it, but fumbles with the hooks that are tacked into the scratchy lace. She feels naturally snug in the material, but the material isn't as sightly on her.

However, she stops her fumbling when a set of bloodied hands snake across her shoulders, traveling down to her squished breasts and cupping them fondly. The bra falls to the floor as Tiffany is spun around and yanked into a heated kiss. She tries to break free at first, but once she giggles at the metallic taste in his mouth, she yields.

"You gonna cook dinner looking like that?" Chucky says in short, raspy breaths.

"Maybe." Tiffany whispers, absorbing the heat from his mouth before intertwining with it again. The woman in the garage has stopped screaming, and the thought of a pair of wide, blank eyes staring at them, arouses Tiffany even more as Chucky lifts her into his arms, carrying her to the bedroom.

Like Axl said: _it's a perfect crime_.

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**A/N: Not sure whether or not this _will _be bumped up to an M. The only reason that I might is when the murdering, the sex, or the swearing becomes too extreme. I'm not there yet, but buckle up just in case~**

**Soooo I'm eating a chicken biscuit in the school cafeteria now, so I don't have anything else to say except review this weird-ass story. That's about it for now...*nom*...**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**


	3. III: Dinnertime

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own ****_Child's Play _****in any way, shape, or form. I am too disconnected from reality to do such a thing, but this is the rope that pulls me back.**

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Melt butter or margarine in a skillet over medium heat. Add breadcrumbs and brown. Spread over the macaroni and cheese to cover. Sprinkle with a little paprika. Bake at 350 degrees F—175 degrees C—for 30 minutes. Serve with a salad for a great meatless dinner.

"Great meatless dinner, my ass," Tiffany sighs, reading the instructions printed from a nameless recipe-sharing website. The macaroni is cooking in the oven, the slathers of seasoning bubbling amidst the idle heat. The salad greens are packaged in two neat Tupperware dishes, although Tiffany made sure to remove most of the tomatoes from Chucky's bowl, as he stated his distaste for them before. (pizza sauce? that's fine. but fresh shit from the garden? don't even think about it) Tiffany had also called Nanny to tell her that Glen and Glenda will have to spend the night with her; she titled the motivation as _reasons unknown_, but Nanny appropriately described it as _adamant thirst for some nighttime-grappling_.

Tiffany grins at the thought, licking her lips. Blood smears her mouth and neck from where he kissed her, the leaden taste distracting her from the dollops of cheese that she had sampled earlier. She is only wearing the new not-so-Navies and her black, withered thong. She did not brush her hair in the afterglow, nor did she reapply her makeup, leaving her face bare and mussed. However, she finds some minor satisfaction in such a state.

As the timer ticks on, she pads towards the garage door and peeks through the leering crack of stale, flicking light. The corpse is hunched over the wooden desk painfully, her clothes ripped to shreds. The pocketknife juts from her back; her hair has been haphazardly sliced from her head. A deep wound on her neck that seemed to smile from ear to ear—that is probably what did it this time, but counting the total of seventeen stab wounds that marred her legs and arms, the overkill appears more joyous than the actual death.

A loud groan falters from the bedroom. Tiffany giggles and trots away from the garage door. In less than ten strides, she is already at the threshold of their marital lair, wherein the mastermind is sprawled out on the bed prostrate, dappled by the same delightful smears of color. She squints at the small TV above and sees an interesting sight: it's a rerun of _Friends _and it's the episode where Rachel has her baby, the "Biblical Whore" as Chucky names it.

Chucky hears Tiffany's harsh laugh and shifts slightly, voice deadened by the pillow covering his face. "Shut up, I like this show. Aniston's got a great ass."

"I bet," Tiffany leans against the doorjamb, clicking her tongue once. "How about you clean yourself up for dinner and I'll play _The Sound of Music _while we're at it."

Although partially unresponsive, the only retort Chucky has is flipping off his wife. She smiles warmly and tells him that dinner will be in a few minutes. As she turns to venture back to the kitchen, she sings a light tune about the hills being alive with the sound of music, to which Chucky flings one of his shoes at the door. Tiffany cups her hand and snickers, shaking her head. The timer goes off when she is back, and she quickly slides her hand into a homemade chicken mitt before opening the oven door.

She sets the macaroni on the stove, contemplating the results of this recipe. It seems to have browned pristinely in the oven, so she doesn't find anything to belittle about it. She checks to see if she's set out two dinner places and two glasses of milk—and she has! Hooray for sharp post-fuck memory! She opens the refrigerator door to pull out the Tupperware dishes—

And the bagged rotisserie chicken falls to the floor, landing on the tile with a lackadaisical plop.

"Shit!" Tiffany snatches the bag and opens the zipper, examining the contents inside. Thankfully, it didn't open as it fell, so the meat didn't touch the floor. There is a small indent, but it still appears edible, so that's all that matters. Tiffany places it in the middle of the dinner table, crumpling up the bag and tossing it into the trash.

Chucky saunters into the kitchen, only dressed in his boxers. He brushes the hair out of his mouth and yawns. "The hell happened?"

"The chicken fell out as I opened the fridge door," Tiffany chuckles, "but it's OK. Can you grab those two salads for me, please?"

Chucky doesn't reply, but he gives a muzzy half-nod and turns to the fridge. Tiffany takes both plates, sets them down on the stove, and grabs a wooden spoon. "How many spoonfuls of macaroni do you want?"

"New recipe?"

"Yes."

"Then two, just to be on the safe side."

Tiffany nods and scoops a couple of spoonfuls onto Chucky's plate. She only puts one spoonful on her plate, as her appetite wouldn't allow any portion too gratuitous for her taste. As she finishes her chore and turns around, she sees both dishes on the table as well as Chucky sitting down, gnawing on a drumstick he tore off.

She chuckles with slight annoyance. "And you didn't even wash up."

"So?" Chucky shrugs. "You didn't either."

"I know."

She hands Chucky his plate and sits down, taking a knife and fork to scrounge out small chunks of chicken. Chucky watches her as she does this, eyeing the way she holds the minute utensils. When she notices this, he shrugs again and says, "You can eat more if you want. Won't bother me."

"I'm not that hungry, tonight," Tiffany rakes the pieces across her plate, nibbling tentatively at her food. "So, how was work today?"

"I swear," Chucky says with a mouthful of chicken and macaroni, "when you ask these meatheads about a goddam truck lift, they look at you and say three plus three is eight."

"But it is. You said so before."

"At least I know what a fucking truck lift is though. I ask these guys during lunch break, Hey, you getting a lift on your Silverado? He looks at me like I'm some illegal alien with a small dick, and that's what most of these assholes are."

"Well, they are middle-school teachers, Chucky. I don't think they can comprehend the expertise of a janitor."

"Hell, if a fucking janitor knows more than these assholes, then they ought to be bent over their desks by the principal." Chucky stops shoveling food into his mouth to purse his lips, looking at Tiffany. "This is some damn good food. Where'd you get the recipe?"

"Online. Don't worry, though, I noticed your collection of classic cinema and minimized it."

"You mean the rape scenes?"

"Yes, the rape scenes." Tiffany no longer takes interest in her food and tries to indulge in the conversation. "I'm still surprised that you would _film_ yourself with those whores and save them onto our computer."

"Think of the many creative possibilities, Tiff! I remember watching some indie film on the tube one night. This old fart was fucking a teenage girl's brains out and he gagged her with a sock that was stuffed with her boyfriend's fingers. Fucking brilliant! I never thought of it before! So I figure if I film myself with these whores and I think of a movie I saw afterwards, I can play it back and see what I did wrong so I can improve the next time."

"You sure it's not just to spray the keyboard?" Tiffany counters.

"Not yet, at least."

"Good, because if I dust the house and I find anything covered with stuff it shouldn't be covered in, woe is you, sweet pea."

Chucky grunts, taking in another large mouthful of macaroni. Tiffany chuckles at him, and when he looks up, she still is despite the scanty humor in his eyes. "What?"

"It's just cute, seeing you eat so fast. You sure you don't want another scoop?"

"No. You sure you're gonna eat that?"

Tiffany looks down at her plate, cringes at it, and immediately hands it to him. He nods and combs the leftovers onto his plate. She slowly withdraws herself from her seat and takes her salad bowl with her, placing it back into the fridge.

"You all right?" Chucky mutters, taking a swig of milk.

"Yeah, of course. Busy day at the diner, that's all. Some asshole offered to pay me extra if I fucked him—"

"I'm surprised you didn't castrate him right then and there. I would've."

(would've fucked the fat whore, would've fucked another, fucked another, but I can't even look at a man)

"Alright, so the customers were pricks—are the kids staying with Miss Mountaineer tonight?"

"Yes, they're staying with Nan tonight. Normally, I don't let them spend the night elsewhere when they have school in the morning, but I've been too out of it to play mamma lately."

Chucky, deeming this conversation pointless, asks abruptly, "Did you find anyone for me?"

Tiffany's eyes close for a moment, two apparitions flittering through her hapless train of thought. The woman is still taking a drag on her cigarette, still grinning with a row of yellow, crooked pieces of coral for teeth. The man is buttoning his shirt, eyes dreamy from the soundtrack of young, desperate shrieks in his head.

"Hey! Tiff!" Chucky says, but stops when Tiffany flinches from his touch. Tiffany lets out a breathless laugh. "Didn't mean to sneak up on ya. You find anyone?"

"Nope. None at all." Tiffany avoids Chucky's gaze, as she knows that he is trying to examine her flimsy lie. As she looks down at the floor, Chucky walks towards the coat rack, snatching his coat off of the hook. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get a few drinks."

"At 10 p.m.?"

"I'm heading to Tavern Central. Gotta clean up first. Don't want to scare the waitresses' tits off, although that would make it easier for me. You coming with me or what?"

"No…really, I'm not feeling all that great tonight."

Chucky flings his coat at her, draping her face. He turns to garage and opens the door, spitting at the corpse. "Fuck _you_, too. Stupid bitch wouldn't stop screaming. Should I dispose of her now or…?"

"No," Tiffany squeaks, hugging his coat like an injured child. "Just leave her there. It's a nice sight…I like looking at it. You can take care of her later."

Chucky tilts his head, trying to find the right button to push. Instead, he snatches his coat and leaves to go put on some clothes. As he does so, Tiffany walks to the couch, sitting down politely. When he emerges, he stuffs the keys into his pockets and kisses her forehead. He stalks out of the door and slams it.

Tiffany sinks against the cushions catatonically, glancing at the corpse one last time before being submerged in a purgatorial dream about the woman's smile and the man's clothes.

(the hiiills are aliiive with the sound of muuuusiiiic)

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**A/N: Sooooo yeah, now's about time to bump up the rating to an M. Some people will disagree w/ me, but hey, better to be safe than gang-raped in prison b/c I was arrested for putting posting my fanfic in the wrong rating. Hey, people can get arrested just for slurping soup, so I'd tread lightly if I were you.**

**However, I need to tread lightly b/c my school is on lockdown due to some anonymous e-mail threats, the government's been shut down so a real-life Purge could commence at any moment, I'm meeting a new therapist who may or may not be a selfish, insensitive bitch like the last one was...y'know what, just skip the last thing I said and review b/c I'm really having severe anxiety right now and I need something to comfort me.**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**


	4. IV: Ignition

**DISCLAIMER: I own many things relating to voodoo and ritualistic sacrifice, but I do not own the Heart of Damballa, thus proving that I don't own the ****_Child's Play _****franchise. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to sacrifice someone who spread nasty rumors about my friends. BRB~**

* * *

Sometimes, Chucky and Tiffany will start fights for no reason. Most of the time, it's over something incredibly asinine, like forgetting to get a pack of Cuban smokes or leaving bloody knives in the sink while the twins were still home. One time, Chucky came home to a wife who frantically prepared supper, but when he made a remark about her vacant appetite, a plate collided with the wall. He overpowered her easily, but she made a good effort trying to claw his eyes out. She left him with a split lip and a few scratches; he left her with an ugly bruise on her arm and several fledgling wheals on her back. Either way, such explosions never felt dysfunctional in their demented purview, as there will be couples near separation over a disagreement over what their first song was, which somehow leads to a confession about sleeping with the maid.

(then again, he's not the first to…first to _anything_, certainly not the last)

When Tiffany's thoughts trail away from disquieted dreams, the ticking digits above read 2:30 a.m. Tavern Central always closes at midnight, when all the beloved bastards of Arkansas can go home to kiss their cousins and defend their stereotypes—(I guess, since we moved here, you don't prove them wrong Chucky)—but her bastard should've been home by now. Two and a half hours in, who knows what he could be doing right now?

Apathy settles into Tiffany's lungs before she decides to care. Shifting agitatedly, Tiffany curls up against the dusty cushions. She picks at the sofa's slipcover, trying to detect a few pieces of hair or a clump of lint. Her eyes feel leaden, although she doesn't feel tired at all. She likes to search for details, condense all the minor distractions into one; perhaps by then, the big picture isn't as big anymore. Perhaps the rotting whore in the garage has walked off, crying about the fact she got a knife across the throat rather than a nice load to pay her taxes with—

(but that woman and that man…a sweetheart for fifty bucks and grandpa's big hands. the fucking combination—)

The door swings open, greeting Tiffany with a loud noise. She doesn't flinch from the sound, but the _sight_. Chucky's flyblown hair masks his face, but through dirty curls, she can feel the drunken, vacuous ice swimming in his eyes. She smiles dubiously, sitting up straight as he walks towards her. He reaches out his hand to gently stroke her cheeks, but an inkling of reflex results in the sound of his palm connecting with her face. Tiffany doesn't gasp in shock, but she shivers when he steps back.

"You wear too much makeup," Chucky says numbly, wiping his hand on his arm. He looks around, shrugging out of his coat. Whatever he is mumbling under his breath, Tiffany can't hear, but the whirlwind of stenches makes her gag. A mint julep, Southern Comfort, a considerable shot of rum along with nameless whiskeys—how he was able to drive home is a mystery.

"Chucky," Tiffany whispers, "how did you even—?"

"Never took a car. I hoofed it."

"That's nice," Tiffany snaps.

Chucky pauses, aimlessly examining the living room. Tiffany's bra is still hanging askew on the television. He forgot to turn off the one in the bedroom, and he can hear the sound of exaggerated gunfire followed by a woman's unconvincing shriek. This strikes Chucky as amusing, and he claps his hands to his mouth, laughing with irate frolic.

Tiffany hugs her knees to her chest, resting her head against her wrists. "What the fuck is so funny?"

"That bitch! That…_bitch! _Sounds like another—another _ahh!_ or another _bang!_ It just, just, sounds like another one that never stops."

Inaudible fragments, mindless driveling, all mixed together with such repugnant laughter; Tiffany slings a mismatched pillow at him, watching it bounce off of his head. The laughter hushes a little, dwindling to boozy giggles. However, he cranes his head at the garage door, which is still opened to display the beautifully disfigured corpse. He steps towards Tiffany, nodding sharply before the twitching hand returns with greater caliber, knocking his wife to the ground.

"You just sweet _fuck _me over sometimes. You clean up your shit like you tell me to? Nope. Just leave it out to fucking fester. Call the rats; they've got some nice fucking chow."

"Give me a break, Chucky." Tiffany staggers to her feet. "It's almost a quarter till three. You're drunk as a sailor, and I can't get any sleep. Can we just take care of—?"

A foot stomps onto her back, causing her to squeak in pain. She shakes, waiting for him to back away, but instead he walks around her, crouching down to see the look on her face. He grins lewdly, prodding at her lips.

"D'aww, am I too rough on ya, sweetheart? Am I fucking you too rough? You like a little drunkard fucking beatin' ya? Do ya?"

At this point, Tiffany is already crawling away from him, but she notices the wine bottle on the table. As his foot presses down on her legs, she reaches for it, only to have a large hand encircle her wrist. She bristles, struggling to get away, but he yanks her to her feet, his foul grin closer to her face.

"Oooh, can't take it, can ya? You can take a lot of shit from me, but this is just too much."

"Chucky, let me go."

"Wouldn't want to mess up your oh-so fuck-worthy appearance, now, do ya?"

"Chucky, I am telling you now: let me go or I'll fuck you up."

Chucky sneers, leaning closer to her neck. His lips graze her skin, but the soft feeling is punctuated by a ring of teeth digging into her neck. "Mm. Does the old man do this to you like I do?"

Tiffany yelps, swinging her free arm at him. Her nails drag across his face, drawing thin, red patterns into his cheeks. When that isn't enough, she kicks him at random, and she strikes him hard enough to have him fall over. As he kneels to the ground, she readily reaches for the bottle's neck. He glares upwards at her, chuckling again. The wild tendrils that spill over his face, the rancid jollity given the situation—(no, no, don't do this to me)—_does the old man do this to you like I do?_—(fuck you, you don't know)—_what does the old man do?_

Without hesitation, the bottle collides with his head. He slumps forward soundlessly, landing near her feet. (yes, that's right, bow to me as I to you, that's better) Tiffany runs her hand across her face, stopping when she pokes at a feeble but noticeable bruise.

"Shit," she says, eyes lolling elsewhere. "Now _I'm _the one that needs a drink."

She glances at the garage door again, seeing that ugly whore lie around in plain sight. Flickering between that and the sight of her husband slumped over his knees like a soldier being punished before the emperor, an idea strikes her. She rushes into the kitchen and finds the largest kitchen knife in the drawer, smiling as she notices the dirty dishes she didn't clean and hears the screams mingle with gunshots in their bedroom.

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**A/N: Well-well-welly-well-well. Her husband beat the shit out of her, she knocked him out, and now she's casually fondling a knife...how romantic :D**

**Sorry if this chapter feels a little rushed. I haven't been feeling great lately and I was hoping to post more than one chapter today. Well, screw it, I'm posting two chapters tomorrow. Yes, praise the Lord, change the choir hymns. Two more chapters of this insanity to read...yay?**

**Well, leave a review telling me what you think. I'm ChekhovTheTroper aaaaaaand we need to have Presidential elections early. Anyone agree?**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**

**(UPDATE: ...well shit, my computer deleted my two chapters, so I cannot be able to post two...this is turning out more stressful than I had hoped. O well.)_  
_**


	5. V: Aftercare

**DISCLAIMER: I may own your precious time, and I may own the many breaths wasted on me; but no matter what, I will never own the ****_Child's Play_**** franchise and that's that.**

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Tiffany is already dressed in her work uniform by the time Chucky awakens. She had moved him to the couch and swathed him in a spare duvet from the bedroom; in spite of the circumstances from last night, he looks somewhat peaceful. The bump on his head isn't anything monumental, but she'll put some ice on it later. The cyclic nursery rhyme lilts from her mouth as she soaks the knife in the kitchen sink.

Chucky groans when a bright sluice of sunlight pours over his eyes. Slight reverbs of pain circulate in his head. As he brushes his hair out of his face, he sees a blurred silhouette of Tiffany in the kitchen. She turns to him with a wide smile and, with disturbing, dreamlike cognizance, notices the dark bruise on her face.

"Fuck…" is all Chucky can say. He blinks at his hand and rolls his eyes, groaning again. "Oh, _fuck_."

"Morning, Chucky," Tiffany chirps, turning her attention away from the sink to finish preparing breakfast. "Care for toast or biscuits?"

"Tiff…what the hell happened last night?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it. You just got a bit crazy, that's all. I'm out of bacon, so I'm using some of the leftover rotisserie for breakfast meat. Hope you don't mind."

"Ugh, my _fucking _head."

"It'll pass." Tiffany twirls around, casually promenading towards him. Chucky stares at her bemusedly, seeing her smirk and the bruise meld together. She peppers his face with kisses, but when she finds the discolored mark on his head, she winks at him before her palm glides across it. He curses, pushing her off of him. As she giggles at him, he hiccoughs, gagging from the heavy hangover stench mingling with morning breath.

"For fuck's sake," he drawls. "I get it. I was an asshole last night. Had too much to drink…now, what was I being an asshole about _this time?_"

"Oh, nothing major," Tiffany purrs. "You just beat the shit out of me because I forgot to clean up the evidence. Smelt awful, too. Don't worry, though, I got rid of her."

A queasy spiral of last night's events reverberates in Chucky's mind. The yelling, the hitting, the bottle colliding with his head—none of which he feels guilty about—but the look in her eyes. Burning coal that held a familiar, tragic backstory; but she found anger elsewhere, buried in some elusive guide to premeditated murder during premenstrual. However, that look—

That look resumes in Tiffany's eyes, giving off a retrospective glimmer as she clicks a button on the small DVD player. The stereo screeches a familiar tune: Iron Maiden's _Killers_, from the Wrathchild to the Prodigal Son, and she appears content with them being both. She twirls her hips around, running her hands up and down her pebbling breasts, and Chucky's eyes widen, seeing how content she really is.

Tiffany spins on her heels, arching her back with a forced gasp. She sinks down, rotating once, twice, bending over and dancing with cadenced allure. Chucky gulps, looking down at his feet. "You're, uh, you're not wearing underwear, Tiff."

"I know," Tiffany gasps again, playing with the skirt of her uniform. "My shift doesn't start till eight. I've got an hour."

"An hour?" Chucky glares at the clocks, and slouches over his knees. "Shit! It's six-thirty? I'm gonna be late if you don't stop distracting me, Tiff!"

"Oh, wouldn't you wait for me, anyway?" Tiffany stops, smiling disappointedly as she turns the music off. "Don't get your dick caught in the zipper. I called Principal Kayls and, according to him, you're struck with the flu. You'll be staying home today and maybe on Monday. Y'know, so we can really sell it."

Chucky nods, but clouded emotion hooks into his expression, and for a brief moment, he regrets the events that took place last night. "Tiff…um, how can I…I was just—why do you have to keep—fuck, what do I say?"

"Hush." Tiffany winks at him again, walking into the kitchen. He hears the clinking of glasses in there, but before he gets up to investigate, she returns with a wooden tray. The rations consist of orange juice, scrambled eggs, a handful of strawberries, and leftover rotisserie chicken mixed with a nameless meat. He blinks, nods again, and decides to dine cautiously. Tiffany kisses his head, sneering, "Sheesh, don't panic, Chucky. It's not like I poisoned it or something. Although, maybe for our next one, we should season a tray of finger-food with arsenic—so that we can raze the M.O. expectations."

Chucky tastes the mixed meats, trying to decipher the nameless flavor. "Damn, though, this is even better than last night's meal. What is this?"

Tiffany chuckles, walking towards the garage door. She kicks it open, revealing nothing more than dried sanguine spots on the floor. Tiffany licks her lips, picturing Chucky's face without turning around. "You know, Chucky, you're right…rotisserie chicken and roasted whore _do _taste the same."

She laughs at the sound of Chucky coughing into his hand, sputtering swearwords. The tray clatters to the floor, and Chucky runs towards her, chasing her into the kitchen. Tiffany sits atop the counter. "Well, I guess I cleaned up my shit fairly well. No more rats."

"Nope," Chucky grunts, lips dipping towards her neck again, finding the same spot from last night. Tiffany squeaks, wrapping her legs around his hips. She glances once out the window—

The woman from yesterday is talking to another patron. She is wearing fewer clothes, exposing more pillowed skin; her eyes are blackened, but her smile prompts a lecherous conversation. Tiffany reaches towards the curtains, trying to renounce the image; but habitual anger catches her off-guard and she knocks over a stack of cleansed dishes.

When Chucky pulls back, he sees that glimmer in Tiffany's eyes again. She slinks off of the counter and taps at the window. "There. I found another one."

"Hmm?"

"See that fat cunt over there?"

"I dunno. Both of them aren't necessarily anorexic, y'know."

"That bitch," Tiffany hisses. "I hate that bitch. I want her dead next."

"Okay. Well, why do you hate her?"

"Do you ask why you hate someone you kill? No? Then just get her soon. She annoys the fuck out of me."

Tiffany lurches over the sink, hiding her face in her hands. Her mind rewires, trying to find the right thought to distract herself with. Chucky leans over her, his hands trailing up and down her back. He impatiently hikes her uniform up to her waist, mumbling vulgar gibberish under his breath.

(it took you this long to start thinking. good job.)

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**A/N: I'm not feeling especially humorous today b/c things have been incredibly crazy lately. I'm way behind on updating this story (want the ending to be out by Halloween), I've been emotionally disheveled due to problems I don't want to talk about, and I'm trying to make everyone happy but it doesn't look like I'm succeeding. I'll just leave you w/ this chapter and hope that you're satisfied w/ the result.**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**


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